Entry 290 Deansjournalverse Was My Love So Wrong?
by Beautifully-Damaged
Summary: Dean reflects back upon the morning of July 4th 1996 and how a simple question about a holiday can go so terribly, terribly wrong when you're dealing with a drunk father. Warnings for  light  child abuse  nonsexual .


_I remember the conversation like it was yesterday. If you can call __that__ a conversation, more like you barking at me with every ounce of hate you ever possessed and me.. me. me. What about me? What __was I __that day?_

Young? Angry? Innocent? Your good little soldier?

Silent. That's what I was. Stupid, silent and cowardly. And I say, with truthful indignation, no matter how bad it pains me to admit it; I can't stand up to you Dad, I just can't. You scare the hell out of me.

xxxx

It was July 4th 1996. We we're in Minnesota. God that place was miserable. Sam had yet to see a real fireworks show and when I asked if you were going to take us to the local fairgrounds for the holiday, you said we had as much chance as a Woodsprite in hell of going to see fireworks that year.

Of course it didn't quite come out that way did it dad? You were already drunk by 10 am, or should I say still bombed from the night before. Your voice was whiskey rough. And although the words came out slurred when you tried to answer with that ridiculous statement of yours, you still made it very clear. I couldn't laugh then but now that I'm older, I gotta admit, it was sort of funny.

You said:

_'Dean. You and Sam have a better chance of becoming a wood Faerie wearing a green tutu dress laced with glitter, wearing crystals around your necks and pink undies in your pockets while being guided by the hand of God himself through the unseemly bowels of Hell without being made somebody's bitch than we did of you taking Sam to the show.'_

Sometimes, upon reflection, I often wonder if you were doing something more than drinking.

Hell, you never took us but always kept promising '_next year boys, next year_.'

Christ. Sam got tired of waiting and you can't blame him, so I pushed to get you to take us. It was for him. Do you know hard it was for him to explain to other kids why his version of Fourth of July holiday included bonfires in metal trash cans, a rebel flag waving in the breeze while his uncle ran around shooting off all of his different weapons?

Bobby's salvage yard and a truck bed full of loaded shotguns and being told '_here kid, shoot at the balloon. it's full of food-colored whipped cream._', is not a proper celebration. Nor is watching a bunch of hunters passed out all around you, or worse yet, still drinking while singing horrible red neck renditions of "Born in the friggin USA."

You were so mad at me that morning. And I didn't understand why.

Sometimes when I'm shaving, in just the right light, I can still see the small scar on my cheek your ring finger left when you hit me. It wasn't the first assault which scarred my face. When I first came in the kitchen to ask you, I didn't know you were passed out with your head resting on the table. I suppose I shouldn't have continued to talk to you when you were first becoming coherent but you hit me anyway for asking.

I remember it like it was yesterday. You yelling and me just standing there, head bowed, face stinging like crazy from your hand, unable to do anything but think my answers. I never spoke a word.

_Is my love so terrible Dean? Huh? I protect you. I keep you safe from all the supernatural shit that creeps around in the night!  
><em>You gave me a loaded gun before I was 9 dad.

_Are you so terribly fucking deprived?  
><em>Sam and I ate day old tuna sandwiches for breakfast but I guess..no.

_I feed you! Clothe you! Put up with both your boys' shit day after day after day and do I complain?  
><em>Isn't that what you're doing now?

_I put a roof over your head! Do you think that money is easy to come by?  
><em>I'm the one who falsifies the signatures cuz you're usually to drunk sign anything legibly but yes, thanks for the ran down motels your credit card scams and pool hustling gets us.

_Are you starved for attention?_  
>No Dad. It's the kind of attention you give me that's breaking me.<p>

_'Is my love for you really so wrong?'  
><em>Unable to respond, I just stood and stared.

I remember your final words. The smell of your rancid breath wafting over me like too much cheap perfume on a whore.

_'Well? Are you going to say something or not!'  
><em>  
>I wanted to yell at you that day. Scream. Get right in your face and shout, but like a good son instantly I replied, "No Sir."<p>

And for that you hit me again. I was silent throughout your tirade and I end up floored with a bloody face. That punch was the one which left the scar. But my scar isn't the point of this entry. It's about a memory. About a life for a brother I care about that I tried so hard to change or at least make as tolerable as possible and how I had to fight you every fucking step of the way to do it.

I pushed you to take us for his sake. But that morning didn't end up being up about Sam or colorful balls of light or the fact I needed stitches but got a bandage instead, did it?

It was about you. It was all about you and your own realizations and insecurities about being a bad father. In retrospect I understand that now, and behind this ink I can finally answer your question.

Yes Dad. Your version of love really was so very, very wrong.

_D.W._


End file.
